Something to Soothe The Stomach
by JonnyLT
Summary: Alone, starving and desperate, two survivors try something much, much different. Woodie/Wolfgang. Not for kiddos. (Also on AO3!)


Eight days away from the camp, they're traveling in a pair, searching, scavenging for anything edible. It had been a simple enough idea, one they'd thought would take a handful of hours, at most. But with the waning of summer having just passed, the rainy fall hadn't had time to quench the earth and regrow the foliage. No matter how far they had wandered no bushes bore fruit, no plants sprung up from the ground—even the trees had not begun to bear nuts.

Meat was no better. Without berries present, gobblers tended to simply not appear, and it was impossible to coax them into a spear when they were nowhere to be found. Rabbits outran them and seemed to be outsmarting them. They would weave pull-traps from the tall grasses in the fields and leave them just outside of the rabbit holes, but when they returned, they would find those same traps chewed full of holes, or the baskets fallen with nothing inside. It was frustrating; on the second day away Woodie had resorted to digging up their burrows, growling in frustration when he jumped at the little lagomorphs and they simply screamed out, dashed to another hole.

It didn't take long for the meager supplies they'd brought ("Why weigh ourselves down? We will be waist-deep in food soon!") to vanish between the two of them. Wolfgang was especially insistent on eating as much as he always did, even when their dwindling supplies were brought to his attention. He'd scoffed at the time, but when their jerky and pickled vegetables had dried up the strongman was the first to panic. Woodie, not understanding at all—after all, Wolfgang had eaten more than his share. Wouldn't he do better while they continued their search?—simply patted the man's back, doing his best to reassure him. At the time, the bigger man's worry seemed blown out of proportion, even for the situation. But today, after two more dry days, the reasons for those concerns became very apparent.

Wolfgang seemed to, for lack of a better word, evaporate. The lumberjack had been hungry quite a lot in his time here and back home had heard the horror stories of POWs denied food until they were walking corpses. But never in his life would he have imagined a man could degrade so fast. In an unbearably short time Wolfgang was positively skeletal. All his muscle had been eaten away, his hair was falling out and his eyes had sunken in. It hurt Woodie to even look at him in this state, so when the strongman began to sag under the weight of his backpack, the red-headed man snatched it away and walked on ahead of him.

They continue that way for a few hours, until the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon. The lumberjack stops momentarily; he opens his mouth to comment on making a fire but is interrupted by a soft, solid _thunk_ behind him. His heart skipped a beat and his whips around, breath catching when he sees Wolfgang curled up on the ground. He runs to him, kneeling down beside him and dropping their bags on the ground. He puts his hands beneath Wolfgang's underarms, pulling the small man's torso up against his body. He's shivering uncontrollably, breath heavy.

Laying the man back down gently, digging through their packs until he finds the woven wool blanket they'd brought for the chilly nights. He wraps the strongman up in it tightly and attempts to tuck it under him, but the black-haired man groans, curling up in a fetal position and mussing up his friend's efforts.

A glance at the sun, a glance at his friend. Woodie knew that they probably wouldn't be moving anymore tonight, so he decides it best to make quick work of a fire. Wolfgang was hurting, but working on fixing him up wouldn't do any good if they were stranded in the dark in the process. He keeps an eye on him during the whole process, watching the older man wriggle as he worked the wood, the straw and the flint. His chest tightens as he stokes the embers to flames and worry has wormed its way into his brain by the time he had worked it into something that would protect them through the night.

"Wolfgang," he murmurs, as if speaking loudly would make his fragile body crumble. He wants to hold the man, but fears his hands could crush those bones. "Wolfgang, talk to me. You okay? Are ya hurtin'?"

It takes a few moments for him to get an answer and the silence kills him. Wolfgang looks even more gaunt in the conflicting light of the sunset and the fire—his cheekbones poked out, the roping muscles in his neck bulged, the pale blue veins in his exposed skin were more apparent against nearly translucent flesh. It's hard for Woodie not to meet his eyes, which are wide and milky. Combined with the mouth that gaped as he breathed, he gave off the very strong impression of a fish out of water.

"Hungry," the man replies, voice cracking. "God, I am so hungry."

It was hard to tell from beneath the blankets, but the strongman desperately clung to his bloated belly. He could practically feel his stomach eating itself in an ironic attempt to stay alive. It had eaten his muscles and sucked the marrow from his bones. His body had killed his hair, thinning it out, making his wonderful mustache shrink and dry out. He wasn't himself; it seemed more likely that he had become a mummy, plucked from an ancient tomb and spat out in the wasteland of this island.

"I know you are. I know." Woodie has to try in order to contain a worried groan. He was hungry too, though he could safely say he wasn't nearly as famished as the sad, tiny man. It was frightening to see a man so full of might and pride in such a state, delicate as a newborn and weighing almost as little. "It's late now… I'll find somethin' for you in the morning, all right?"

Rather than reply with words, Wolfgang chokes out a single sob, entire body shuddering. He was going to die in the night, his lungs and his brain devoured. If he could stand and walk, he would muse letting the monster take him before his own body did.

They go silent after that. Wolfgang sleeps, head in Woodie's lap, having his hair stroked. It's calm, given the circumstances. Nothing comes to bother them; no noises pierce the air, save for the crackle of fire and the angry growls of the strongman's stomach. The plethora of bright white eyes that usually came to mock them were nowhere to be found, though it wasn't unreasonable to think that whatever lurked in the dark was biding its time, waiting for them to succumb to the indiscriminate cruelty of hunger.

Hours pass; the lumberjack had just begun to drift off when a familiar, frustrating feeling rushed over him. He bites his lip when it hits him like a punch in the gut, when his bladder contracts. He moves Wolfgang's head slowly off of his lap, laying him down gently. He gets to his feet, taking a few deep breaths to keep from pissing his pants and embarrassing the hell out of himself.

What they lacked in food, they'd made up in water. Everyone in the camp had been sewn a makeshift waterskin and the two men had made good use of theirs, filling them to bulging with pond water every morning and having them more than gone by nightfall. They hadn't stopped for a break since the sun was high in the air, so it made sense that this hit him so hard.

"Woodie?" says the quietest little voice, just as the man had taken a single step away. "Where you are going?"

"Oh, uhh—gotta use the bathroom. Gonna get me a torch'n find a rock or somethin'."

"Wait," Wolfgang replies before he can even think about it. "Wait, don't go."

"Wolfgang, I'll be real quick. You won't even notice I'm gone." Goosepimples began to dot his skin and a shiver went up his spine. He turns away again to leave but is stopped by a bony hand gripping the back of his pant leg. He tries not to sound frustrated as he asks, "God, what is it?"

"I'll help," Wolfgang sputters out quickly, mouth dry.

"Help..?" He lifts his arm, looking down at the man from beneath it. "How're you gonna help?"

"Do not need to find rock." The small man's head is tilted up towards his friend, but he can't look him in the eye. "I will- I will take it. Your, umm-"

"You want me to relieve myself on ya?" He's giving Wolfgang a look, one that says just how confused he is better than words do. "That's crazy talk. "

"Please!" Wolfgang interjects. "Just… Just to have something on my stomach."

Oh, that was even worse. This wasn't some weird attempt at keeping warm, or one of those freaky things that fellas used to get themselves excited. The sorry, desperate man wanted to _drink_ from him, grasping at straws for any chance to survive.

"I ain't gonna do that to ya, bud." Woodie says, hiding his horror. "I'm not gonna d'grade you like that, not when I-"

The Russian man throws his twiggy arms around the other's hips, clinging to him as tightly as he could in his state. He knew he probably wasn't thinking rationally about this; he knew it probably wouldn't help. But he was so unfathomably ravenous that he at least wanted to try. "Please! You will not have to do anything at all! If you just relax, Wolfgang will do it all."

Woodie does his best to avoid Wolfgang's gaze, shifting his vision away, because he knows that the moment he looks into those big black eyes, he'll be finished. He's able to for a moment, until his gut cramps and his brain thrusts the man's offer to the forefront of his brain. It forces the lumberjack to look at his companion, see his desperation. It makes his chest hurt, his resolve melt away.

He kneads his forehead. "Fine."

Wolfgang, as overjoyed as he can manage, releases the legs, shakily bringing himself up to his knees. Woodie turns to him slowly, reluctant; as soon as he does, the Russian practically pounces on him, working the clasp and zipper of the lumberjack's long-dirtied slacks. He gets ahead of himself and his partner needs to stop him, take his hands. "Easy now," he mutters. He undoes his buttons, letting his flannel shirt slide off of his shoulders. He gestures to his long underwear, hoping the other might understand how it might have impeded his progress.

The Canadian man pushes his long johns down his chest, keeping his eye on Wolfgang as he does so. He notes as he does so that the strongman has a different look of hunger on his face, one that makes him just a little uncomfortable. He tries not to blush as the rest of his clothes pool at his ankles and the Russian man's hands find his thighs.

His breath catches in his throat for a moment when he feels bony hands delicately grasp his cock and he coughs as he witnesses tiny kisses being placed on the head. Wolfgang gently drags his tongue up the slit on his friend's dick before he takes the entirety of it in his mouth.

Woodie is paralyzed, heart racing. This whole thing is so—so _foreign_ to him. The very idea of pissing on (or in) someone, exposing himself to another man (aside from in the showers), the very warm and inviting feeling of a slick tongue hidden behind plush lips; all of it confuses him, makes his head swim.

It takes the rhythmic, circular rubbing of his hip to bring him back to the moment and relax. Wolfgang looks expectant, eyes glassy and knees shaking from the effort of staying up. The lumberjack bites his bottom lip, runs fingers through the hair of the man below him. And, not wanting to make either of them suffer anymore, he gives the black-haired man what he wants.

It's so embarrassing, using this beautiful man as if he were a mere toilet or a bush in the woods. He tries to go slow, stopping himself every few moments to let his partner ( _he gulps_ ) drink, but Wolfgang spurs him on with a grip of his ass or a slap of his thigh and he simply continues. The tiny man swallows his piss like a champ, and relief washes over the Canadian in tides. However, Woodie has to wonder if he hadn't done this before. He begins to consider it, but decides against it, since the image makes his stomach warm and the last thing he wants to happen is for this to go south.

It's over in a minute, and, as if sensing the lumberjack's doubts, Wolfgang keeps his gorgeous mouth wrapped around his organ, long after the man who towered above him had run dry. To Woodie's bane, he also began to suck him off.

"No- No, that wasn't part of the deal!" he scolds, a bit too harsh and panicked.

Wolfgang removes himself, a long thread of drool following him as he moved away. He wipes it away and looks hurt. Defensively, he states, "Thought that was what you wanted. You seemed to be enjoying it."

It's with a gulp that the ginger takes a moment to examine himself and notice that, oh, indeed, he was hard, his dick standing tall and throbbing. "It's just been a while. Dern it, it don't mean nothin'!"

"If it's nothing, would not hurt to have Wolfgang take care of it, would it?" Before he can even get an answer, the strongman's pale fingers enclose on his erection, slowly and lightly stroking it.

He had a point, even if the notion _was_ like a slap to the face. He was sure that the strongman would just use it as part of his pitiful attempt at surviving the night, which was fine in theory. He would have warmth in his belly, Woodie could get off. But the thought of being used by this man he was sure he adored…

The Russian whines, hand stilling, eyes turned up to the man above him. "Woodie? Won't force you. I am sorry. Do not mean to be selfish."

"No, no. Go—go ahead." The lumberjack shakes his head, tries to smile. "You ain't being selfish at all. You're just trying to help."

Maintaining their friendship and Wolfgang's hopes was more important than his silly little feelings. If the tiny god knelt at his feet could lower himself to swallowing urine, Woodie could swallow his miniscule, flickering pride. He rests his palms on the strongman's hair, awkwardly sort of guiding him back to his dick.

Wolfgang has no objections, no qualms. He happily returns to giving head, which, the ginger man soon learns, he's very good at. He groans, hips bucking from every little sensation. Soon, it's a continuous movement, spurned by the delicious plush feeling of the small man's throat. But he hears gagging, and his eyes—which had been shut so that he could actually try to savor this—snap open. The strongman's face is red and he's teary, hands clutching his gut. Not wanting to be cruel and make his friend vomit, Woodie keeps himself still and decides it best to let Wolfgang do things himself.

Soon, he's glad he did. The Russian turns out to be an expert in the field of sucking men off. Woodie finds his head swimming within minutes and scolds himself for never propositioning him before. It takes no time at all for his orgasm to creep up on him, settle in his belly and make his whole body tense up.

"Wait, wait." He gasps, not wanting to finish (and be inevitably separated) so soon. Wolfgang, however, refuses to relent. For a moment this frustrates the lumberjack, but quickly he remembers why this is happening. This isn't some affair they're having—Wolfgang is convinced he needs this to survive. The strongman's needs were more important than his own petty wants.

So Woodie comes, shoots his load into the waiting mouth of his partner, who greedily swallows it all. He doesn't stop there, though; he continues to give him head hungrily, kneading his balls in an attempt to milk every last drop out of him. The lumberjack is quivering himself by the time his partner finishes, satisfied and drained.

Knees finally giving out, Wolfgang falls back to the ground, resting on his stomach. Still in a sexed-up haze, the lumberjack considers how good it would feel to rip that leotard away and fuck that fragile fellow into the dirt. If it weren't for the sobering reality of the situation, he very well may have. But instead he dresses himself, tucks his friend back in. The poor guy's already half asleep, so Woodie takes the time to be a little self-indulgent, kisses his head. The strongman squirms and the lumberjack pulls away.

Contrary to the usual effect sex had, the red-headed man was now frustratingly wide awake. So he prepares the torch he meant to not even an hour ago and heads out into the darkness.

He'd been walking for no more than five or six minutes when he happened upon a cluster of berry bushes, alive and bursting with fruits. And some yards away were neatly planted carrots, which were less than a stone's throw from several unharvested farm plots. He wants to laugh at the irony of the whole thing, but he's much too busy stuffing food into his bag, quickly and quietly so as not to wake the pigs he didn't doubt it belonged to.

Driven by the mental picture of Wolfgang's overjoyed face and his own hunger, he returns to their resting spot as fast as he can. He nearly slides into the dirt beside his companion, shaking him and holding him close.

"Wassis?" the strongman grumbles, snuggling up close to Woodie.

"I gotcha food, Wolfgang! Real food!"

"You are teasing…"

"No!" He shakes his head with a chuckle. Cradling the small man in one arm, he uses the other to fish into his rucksack, removing a carrot and holding it in front of them both. It takes a moment, but when the Russian processes what it is, he audibly gasps, and lunges for it, snatching the vegetable out of the other man's hands. He sinks his teeth into it, unroasted and dirty; he doesn't care one bit.

While his companion is occupied with that, the lumberjack decides it best to take a portion of what remains and cook it. Not too much, but enough to survive for now, with the rest hopefully enough to make it back to the others.

They spend the next hour in silence, with nothing but the sounds of chewing and burping and sighing in the air. When they've both had their fill, they huddle up close together. Woodie is now the one wrapped up in arms, ones that are thick and strong and so much more natural. He doesn't want to ruin the moment, so he avoids pointing out how odd it was for two men to be close together like this. But Wolfgang kisses his cheek and his ear and his head, hugs him up tight.

"Thank you," he breathes into his ear, deep voice so very, very beautiful. "You saved me."

Burning red, Woodie hides his face. "It's nothin'. It's what friends do."

In a moment, the lumberjack finds himself on his back on the ground, the Russian kneeling over him like a deity. Wolfgang kisses him, not like a greeting, but like a lover. He pushes his tongue into Woodie's mouth, and for a moment he can taste himself on it. The strongman puts his entire weight on him, grinds his hips against the other's ass until they're both groaning and grunting.

But, ever the tease, Wolfgang stops just as Woodie begins to feel the Russian man's dick press against him. He smiles at the sweaty, blubbering mess he's left the lumberjack in and with all the confidence in the world he says, "Let's be friends for a long, long time."


End file.
